Drowning in Darkness
by chappysmom
Summary: He couldn't decide if it was a relief or a curse that he'd been left completely, absolutely alone. You couldn't fight darkness with your fists, and no matter how strong your will-power, it could be beaten down by the constant monotony of nothingness. Nobody needed John. Not quite as dark as it sounds. 4 Chapters.
1. Chapter 1

(NOTE: Usual disclaimer-I own nothing but my own plot. I just like to play in the BBC/Sherlock universe.)

John sat in the dark, head on his knees.

He tried to force himself to think, to keep his brain active. It was the only defense he had against the all-encompassing blackness, yet the longer he was here, the less he could bring himself to care.

Not that he knew where he was, just that it was a cell. Four walls, a floor, a ceiling of some kind. No windows. No door. No light of any kind. For all he knew, it had been built around him. In his first days here, he had explored with his hands, but never found anything resembling a crack to define an entry point of any kind. His guess (hope?) was that there was a trap door in the ceiling, well above his reach.

There was nothing to reach with, either. His cell was neither cold nor hot, but those remained its only amenities. There was a pallet or mattress of some kind in the corner, but no blankets. He'd been stripped of most of his clothes before being locked here but was never cold—one small blessing. The corner opposite the mattress was his water feature—a continuous trickle of water down the wall, pooling in a basin built into the wall and then running down to a hole in the floor that also served as his toilet. He had worried at first that the water was just being pumped through on a continuous loop, but had that been the case, he would have been sick by now. So, the incoming water was fresh—another (very small) blessing. Though he'd almost welcome the variety of an interesting illness at this point. Anything to alleviate the monotony.

A third corner was the larder. When he'd arrived, it had been stacked with some kind of energy bars, but the pile was dwindling. One of the things he was trying not to think about was how few bars were left, and what he was going to do when they ran out.

He had no idea how long he'd been here. There was nothing to keep track with—no handy stick to scratch lines into the walls, even if he could have seen them. All he had were power bar wrappers—132 of them, and counting—but how that converted into days, he had no idea.

He couldn't decide if it was a relief or a curse that he'd been left completely, absolutely alone. He didn't exactly regret the complete lack of torture, but that would at least have given him something to _fight_. You couldn't fight darkness with your fists, and no matter how strong your will-power, it could be beaten down by the constant monotony of nothingness.

At first, he had tried to keep his spirits up. He had tried jogging in place, doing sit-ups, push-ups, anything to keep in shape, but as the days ran into one another, he'd found himself just lying on his pallet, too listless to do anything. Even thinking became too hard, as if focusing on a thought was as impossible as focusing his eyes. It was all just … nothing.

Think, John! He tried to rally his thoughts. How did you get here? The last thing he remembered was sitting at 221B, alone. Always alone these days. The ultimate irony was that this empty, black cell was barely any worse than his own flat had been since Sherlock … fell. That silence had been no less deafening. The only real difference was that the black emptiness had been behind his eyes.

And there had been tea. He licked his lips, remembering. He missed tea. Right now, he would give almost anything to have Mrs. Hudson bustle in, insisting he eat something, take care of himself.

If he hadn't been so discouraged, he would have chuckled. All his friends had been so worried about him being suicidal with Sherlock gone. For all he knew, they thought he'd gone someplace and killed himself. For all he knew, they weren't looking for him at all. And why should they? What good was he to anyone? Nobody needed John Watson any more. Not since that brilliant tornado of energy had plummeted from the Barts roof and brought any sense of purpose John might have had to an end.

He had tried to go through the motions. Tried going to work to help the sick. Tried to pull together a semblance of a life—something that looked like one at any rate. He'd taken what little solace he could in that he was at least superficially helped people (even if only with things like chest infections or broken arms). He might even have been succeeding. He couldn't honestly remember.

So, what had happened? He remembered sitting in the flat, remembered making a cup of tea, and then … nothing. Had the tea been drugged? How had he been taken from the building without Mycroft seeing? John was sure Mycroft still had him under surveillance, even with Sherlock gone. He had told him as much on their brief meeting after the funeral, when Mycroft had told him he was Sherlock's sole beneficiary.

And a lot of good that did him, he thought.

No, he definitely did not remember leaving Baker Street. Just drifting off to sleep in his chair, and then waking here. Wherever here was.

He had wondered, early on, if this was all Mycroft's doing. He wouldn't put it past him. With his history of kidnappings, if he had thought John was likely to do anything rash, it would be completely believable for Mycroft to have locked him away somewhere to keep him safe. Except, he didn't think a bare, dark cell would be Mycroft's style. A long-term abduction of an acquaintance (colleague? friend? co-conspirator?) would be somewhere more comfortable, John was sure. A real bed, for example, and a proper toilet would definitely be included. Gourmet meals, even if all the doors and windows were locked and sharp objects kept at a distance.

It couldn't be Moriarty. For one, Mycroft had assured him that Moriarty was dead, found on the Barts roof shortly after Sherlock's jump. John couldn't believe that any of Moriarty's men would care enough about him to lock him away indefinitely. Not without torture being involved—and not just this fuzzy, psychological, sensory-deprivation kind. He was quite sure that Moriarty's people were well-versed in the bloody, painful, disfiguring kinds of torture. But what possible kind of revenge would kidnapping him be?

But, who did that leave? And why? He was no good to anybody. Nobody needed him. Even the surgery would have found a replacement for him easily enough. There were plenty of GPs out there looking for work. Mrs. Hudson would no doubt miss him, and Lestrade would worry. He knew that. But neither of them _needed_ him. Nobody did. Any more.

He leaned his head back against the wall and tried to remember light. He knew he had a life before this room, but it was getting harder to remember it. The idea of fresh air, of having room to walk, to run, seemed like a dream—unreal, just something your subconscious made up one day, but with no more reality than being able to fly. He'd gotten past the point where the dark made his eyes ache. At first he'd imagined glimmers of light as his eyes strained to see anything, anything at all, but they'd given up on that days ago. (Weeks?)

Now, the only light was what he could pull from his memory. He imagined sun filtering through the maple trees from his childhood home. He remembered the glaring light in Afghanistan. He pulled up the cozy light from 221B and hugged it to himself as if it could still warm him. But mostly, he remembered the light that seemed to surround Sherlock. His brilliance, his energy, that spark that illuminated his face when he was enthralled by a deduction. John thought most of his memories of Sherlock were drenched in brightness.

Hard though he found it to concentrate, one thing he had managed to do while here was to build his own mind palace. He understood the concept—to plot a 3-dimensional map of rooms or streets in his mind and stick his memories along the route, lodging them where they could be easily found. He'd never had the focus to build one before, but now? His mind meandered back and forth from a complete daze of internal distractions, but the complete lack of external distractions helped. He found himself sorting through his memories, storing them in vivid detail in his mind palace (which had a distinct resemblance to 221B Baker Street). At least his mind could roam while he was locked away.

But mostly, he slept. He had raged at the blank walls often enough at the beginning, but now … he endured. Or tried to. Really, it wasn't like it was that much emptier here than it had been back at the flat. Without Sherlock, nothing mattered, anyway. As much as he longed for a cup of tea, well, it didn't make a difference, did it? And if his pile of energy bars disappeared and he starved? It wasn't like anybody would notice, would they? Nobody needed John Watson any more. He could dwindle away here in the dark as well as in the flat, anyway. Because really, what difference did it make?

There was nobody to miss him.

Not even him.

#


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't care, Mycroft. I have to find him!"

Mycroft just shook his head, looking absurdly, ridiculously unconcerned. "No, Sherlock, you have to finish what you started. If you don't bring down the rest of Moriarty's ring, it won't matter."

"Won't matter?" Sherlock couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice. "Of course it matters! This is _John_ we're talking about. The reason I've done any of this. The man _you_ were supposed to keep safe."

His voice was utterly unconcerned as he answered, "As I've told you, I don't know how they got him out of the flat. We saw him enter the building at his usual time after his shift at the surgery. He just … never came out. We checked … _I_ checked … the next day, and the flat was empty."

Sherlock was pacing the room, pulling energy like waves as he swept across the floor. "And you didn't think to worry? We lost months, Mycroft. Months! How could you not tell me? Now the trail is cold, even for me."

John had disappeared from Baker Street four months, one week, and two days after Sherlock's 'death,' and had now been missing for five months, three weeks, and four days. Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest every time he thought of what Moran could have done to John with all that time.

Mycroft rubbed his temple with one long finger. "It's not like we didn't look, Sherlock."

"No." Sherlock wheeled on him. "You don't get to make excuses. You have to help me _find him_."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"It looks to me like you're having a nice, relaxing drink, brother dear," Sherlock said, acid in his voice.

He flung himself into the empty chair and ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp as if to force his brain to find a solution. "It's been almost six months, Mycroft," he finally said, voice small. "John disappeared and you didn't even tell me."

Sherlock hated that his voice held the faintest trace of a quaver. He'd been in Germany and had gone to John's blog—a habit he couldn't break, even after John stopped updating after his jump. He could still remember the surge of anticipation, and how that was immediately overwhelmed with horror when he found the site completely gone. But he had stupidly believed Mycroft when he said John had lost interest in the site.

It wasn't until now, when he was down to the last cog in Moriarty's network, that Mycroft had told him what he'd done.

Five months ago, a week or so after John disappeared, an anonymous post had appeared on his blog.

_"Found. One lost pet. Must claim in person."_

It had included a photo of an unconscious John sprawled on a bare mattress in what looked like a dark basement. He had looked unharmed, but instead of alerting Sherlock, Mycroft had done the unthinkable. Not only had he _not_ told Sherlock, he had instantly blocked his blog so that Sherlock would not see it.

That had been almost six months ago, and he had only just found out.

He had no idea if John was still alive.

Mycroft had lied to him, constantly, for months, every time he had asked him how John was.

Asking Mycroft to do look after John while he was gone had been the hardest thing Sherlock had ever done. It had also been his most costly mistake.

Mycroft shifted in his chair. "Sherlock, you know that I've done everything I could. You've seen the reports. I tried everything. He's just … gone."

Sherlock was on his feet again. "I shouldn't have left this to you. I should have stayed—or brought him with me! Do you think I cared about Moriarty's network? All that mattered to me was John's safety."

A sigh. "No, Sherlock. I know what his safety means to you."

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. "What? What aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft tightened his lips, eyes narrowed. "I don't mean to disparage him, but … I can't help but wonder."

"Wonder?" Sherlock's voice was sharp. "Wonder what?"

"He disappeared so thoroughly, with no signs of violence. And the only message has been that one note, telling you to arrive in person." Mycroft took another sip of his drink. "He had been so distraught, Sherlock. Even his therapist—yes, we both agree on her—but even she was worried about his mental health. He kept insisting he'd missed something and wouldn't let it go."

Sherlock was frankly staring. "You think this is _him_?"

"I think it's a possibility. If he was desperate enough and wanted to ensure your coming for him—how better than by faking his own abduction? And posting it to his own blog?"

"But … No." Sherlock was practically sputtering, unable to believe what he was hearing. This his rage caught up and he exploded. "_That's_ why you didn't pursue this? Mycroft!"

Mycroft was giving him a stern look. "I did pursue this, Sherlock. You have the reports to prove it. But when I could find nothing, what else am I to believe but that perhaps there's nothing to find? That your doctor was so desperate, so broken, that he took extreme steps in the hopes of luring you back?"

Sherlock was speechless, actually speechless. "I can't believe you, Mycroft. All these years, my whole _life_, you've practically begged me to trust you, and when I finally need you, you do this?"

Calmly now, he picked up his coat. "I don't care what happens to Sebastian Moran or any of the rest of Moriarty's web. I am going to find John Watson, and if I must come back to life to do it, I will."

"And if you do, they will kill him outright in retaliation for your deception."

Sherlock shook his head. "I think not. They wouldn't have invited me only to have me miss the final act—the only question is whether he will survive the curtain call."

He looked his brother in the eye. "So, are you going to help me, Mycroft? Or not? Because I promise you, John Watson would never be so cruel as to trick me in this way."

"Why not? You did it to him."

Sherlock wished he could deny that statement, but all he said was, "But John has always been a better man that I, brother."

Mycroft set aside his glass and stood. "Then I will help you. I just hope you are prepared for what you may find."

#

In the end, Sherlock's resurrection was very limited. He sent a text to Lestrade that had the man hurrying to Sherlock's current flat, not believing his eyes.

His rage at Sherlock's deception lasted only until he learned why Sherlock was back and then all the fight drained out of him. "Oh Christ, Sherlock. I did everything I could to find him. The whole time, all I could think was how much I wished you were here, because nobody else I knew would be able to put the pieces together. Not that that was exactly a popular opinion, mind you, what with … everything."

"My suicide, you mean."

"Yeah, that and the reasons behind it. I mean, nobody but me believed you solved that last kidnapping either, did they? And frankly, disappearing didn't do John's reputation any favors, either. Too many people were willing to believe he'd faked it himself to get away from the bad press surrounding you, that he'd been involved after all."

Sherlock shook his head. Did nobody have faith in John Watson? "Sadly, inspector, I believe that this puzzle was tailored to me exactly. I doubt anyone else could solve it." He held up a hand at the other man's protest. "That's not to say you didn't try. I'm quite sure you did everything you could."

Lestrade's eyes were sad as he said, "I did, Sherlock, so help me. It broke my heart, losing both of you."

Sherlock continued to study the papers. "Yes, well, at least the trail wasn't cold when you started." He heard the note of despair in his voice, and hated himself for it. He didn't believe for a minute that this was a trick of John's, some kind of retaliation, but he had studied these reports multiple times. He had even snuck into Baker Street to no avail. He had seen nothing to provide any leads.

He didn't dare make his resurrection public knowledge. Not yet. Sherlock didn't believe they would kill John outright if he confirmed that he was still alive, but at this stage, with so much time passed, he wasn't willing to take the risk. It was better to be subtle.

His opening move was simple. He logged into John's (now resurrected) blog and wrote his own post.

_Missing: One best friend. IOU if you can help me find him._

Sherlock might not be ready to confirm his survival to all the world, but he hoped the post would at least pique the kidnapper's interest enough to get a response, a lead—anything to help him find John.

While he waited, he poured over all the notes and reports from when the abduction was noticed. He studied John's movements prior to his disappearance, as well as watching the CCTV footage of all the activity on Baker Street that day. He read Mycroft's report about John's blog being hacked into and how the IP address had been a dead-end. And, with a simmering rage, read the note at the bottom of the file that suggested that the abduction was a fake.

There was no question that John was a smart man, but to have been able to go to ground thoroughly enough to evade Mycroft and Lestrade? After faking his own kidnapping? For this long? It just wouldn't happen. John might be hurt enough to want to run—and Sherlock could always sympathize with anyone wanting to avoid Mycroft—but the abduction? The worry it would cause his friends alone would prevent the John Watson he knew from doing such a thing.

Sherlock admitted that his own 'suicide' may well have changed John. But an angry, embittered John still would have his own basic, essential goodness at heart. He might lash out toward Sherlock or Mycroft, he might withdraw, but he still would never be deliberately cruel. At the very least, he wouldn't cause this agony to Mrs. Hudson.

He refreshed the comments page again and sighed with relief. An address, and a time.

He hoped he would soon have the answers.

#

John woke suddenly, startled. It was almost as if he'd heard a noise, but that was impossible. The only sound was of the water trickling down the wall. Same as always. There was no such thing as another noise. Noise didn't exist. Light didn't exist. There was nothing but The Dark. Nothing but Black.

He lay on his pallet, staring at nothing, then stood shakily and took the ten steps necessary to get a drink, sinking to the floor as he did. He considered eating, but he was down to his last few bars now, and decided to wait. There wasn't a point, really. Eating. Not eating. What difference did it make? When he ran his hands down his arms, his legs, his stomach, he could feel the weight and muscle he'd lost. Crossing the room was a challenge now. He sometimes worried that his legs would snap under his weight, and then was relieved to remember that he weighed so much less than before, so they didn't have to hold as much.

He'd long since lost track of how long he'd been here, but he'd gone through 519 energy bars and, if he'd had, say, three a day, then that was … how many days? He couldn't think. Even simple math was beyond him. He was wasting away, disappearing, fading into the darkness. Just a distant memory, even to himself. As distant as the world was from his cell, his prison.

His grave.

He couldn't even bring himself to care.

Then he jumped. That _had_ been a noise.

#


	3. Chapter 3

"No. You are not going in there alone, Sherlock. You _know_ it's a trap!"

Sherlock shrugged. "Of course it is, but it's also the only lead we have and I am going to follow up on it!"

Lestrade reached out and grabbed his shoulders. "Moran is a sniper, Sherlock. What makes you think he won't shoot you the minute you walk in there?"

"Because he wants revenge. At the very least, he'll want to torture me with whatever agony he's put John through these last six months." He shrugged off the other man's hands. "You know why I jumped, Lestrade. Do you really think I'm going to hesitate now to trade my life for his?"

"No, but that doesn't mean you have to be stupid about it. Do you know what John will do to me if I let you waltz in there and get yourself killed?"

Sherlock was already turning toward the door. "But he'll be alive, Lestrade. I can't … it's been six months of who knows what kind of torture. I can't let him suffer any more."

"I'm not saying we're not going in there to rescue him, Sherlock, and I'm damn well not saying we're letting him suffer a minute longer than we have to." Lestrade stepped right up to him and poked him in the chest, eyes burning. "I'm saying that neither of you is going to forgive ME if the other doesn't come out of this alive, and I'm not having John Watson furious at me the rest of my life, all right? You can afford to take a few minutes to plan an exit strategy that will get you both out of there, yeah?"

A smooth voice came from the shadows. "I'm forced to agree with the inspector, dear brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course Mycroft was here. "Come to redeem your failures, Mycroft?"

"Here to help, Sherlock, as I promised."

Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Fine. We've got an hour. What do you suggest?"

#

One hour later, he entered the warehouse.

He had expected aisles, mazes of shelves and containers. He had expected shadows and hiding places.

He hadn't expected this.

The outer door opened into a five foot long tunnel, which he traversed warily, aware of the possibilities for attack at the end of it. But, no.

He stepped out of the tunnel and frankly stared. The entire interior of the warehouse was bright and laboratory clean, lit by massive lights hanging from the ceiling. There was a wall built all the way around, effectively blocking any view from the outside. A metal catwalk circled the entire room—a perfect perch for a team of snipers.

The only other thing in the entire, massive space was a structure. Roughly twelve feet square, looking like solid cement, it sat solidly as the centerpiece of the room. There was a large pipe running from the ceiling into the corner of the building and ladder built into the side, but there were no other features. It was clearly the only purpose this space had.

Sherlock took a blind step toward the structure, but forced himself to stop. There was no guarantee that John was in there. The … cell … was clearly the bait to this trap. There was no way to approach it without leaving what little cover he had, and as Lestrade had pointed out, Moran was a sniper.

He started circling the room, staying under what cover the catwalk provided. He watched for signs of movement, but still couldn't keep his eyes away from that building in the center of the room.

The door had to be on the other side, he told himself. Directly opposite the entrance would make the most sense. A sniper could then position himself to guard the warehouse's entrance as well as the exit for anyone trapped inside that room. Assuming it was a room. Assuming there was someone trapped.

Warily, Sherlock edged along the wall, watching. He could see the third side of that central structure now, and still no door. It must be on the fourth side then … but when he had crept further, he could see there was none. The roof, then? Was that what the ladder was for?

What he did see, though, made the breath freeze in his lungs.

A flatscreen monitor hung on the wall, showing surveillance footage of the inside of a cell, and inside … was John.

Sherlock found himself crossing the open space without thought, eyes fixed on the screen. The image was grainy, with that green tinge that you got with night-vision goggles, but it was _John_. A John with a beard and unkempt hair curling to his shoulders. A John who had lost several stones' worth of weight but looked essentially unharmed.

He had been here all this time, waiting for a rescue that might never have come. Sherlock didn't want to think what that had done to John's mental state.

Sherlock's hand rose, fingertips stretching toward the screen, when a loud, mocking voice echoed through the room. "So sweet. It's so touching to see a master reunited with a long-lost pet. I'd begun to think you didn't care."

Sherlock swung around, eyes searching the room.

"You really shouldn't abandon your pets, Holmes. They're so bad at taking care of themselves. Luckily, I was able to give yours a home." The voice was mocking, enjoying itself. "I've tried to take proper care of it for you. Food, water, a safe place to sleep. Of course, I've always considered fresh air and exercise overrated."

Another laugh and then, "But then, I've never been very good at caring for pets."

There was a hiss, and the sound of water. A lot of water.

Sherlock looked around wildly, and then realized the sound came from the pipe overhead. He turned to the monitor in horror and saw John's head turn toward the corner and then give a small jump as water lapped over his foot.

There was nothing else to do. He knew this was a trap, knew he was probably about to be shot, but it didn't matter. He couldn't stand here and watch John drown.

He lunged for the ladder. With no door into the room, there had to be a hatch of some kind on the roof. Why else have the ladder?

But as soon as his hand reached for it, there was a clang as a bullet hit the ladder just above his fingers. "Now, Holmes, don't you trust me? I'm just giving your pet a bath so he'll be nice and clean when you bring him home."

Sherlock took another look at the monitor. The water was already over John's ankles. "What do you want, Moran?"

"I'm a simple man, Holmes. I just want you to suffer and die. You've killed enough of us these last few months." There was a bark of laughter. "I was starting to think I'd miscalculated, you know. I've had your pet for months and you never came looking. I was ready to cut my losses."

"Stop calling him my _pet_," Sherlock said hissing it through his clenched teeth. Another glance at the screen. The water was creeping up John's legs. Too fast.

"Well, he's more mine than yours now, anyway, isn't he?" Moran's voice was mocking. "He's rather sickly, too. I'm just doing the merciful thing, here. Euthanasia, isn't that what it's called?"

Sherlock flinched as another bullet flew by, ruffling his hair with its wind. Where the hell was Lestrade and the backup he swore Sherlock needed? "If you want me dead, fine, but let me save John. He doesn't deserve this."

"And Jim didn't deserve to have you trick him, did he? After he gave his life for you and your friends?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh. "He gave his life to _risk_ their lives. And I did exactly what he wanted—I jumped. I jumped to save my friends—now _let me save him_."

The water was at John's hips now, and he was clearly having trouble standing. Sherlock didn't think he would be able to tread water for long. He lunged for the ladder again, and this time the bullet didn't miss.

It tore through his arm at the shoulder (the left one, just like John's, he thought), but he forced himself to climb. He just had to get the hatch open, so John could escape. Then it wouldn't matter if Moran killed him. At least John would be alive, would know that he hadn't been forgotten or abandoned.

He was almost surprised that there were no more shots until he reached the top of the ladder. Then he realized why.

Sherlock just stood and stared, mind a blank, drowning in dark horror just as surely as John was drowning beneath his feet.

There was no hatch. No door. No opening of any kind.

John was sealed into the room, and there was nothing Sherlock could do.

He just closed his eyes at the sound of Moran's laughter.

He had failed.

#

John started at the sound, mind reeling. What was …? His brain struggled to identify it, but was hampered, out of practice after an eternity in a dark room. The only sound he could recognize with any surety was that of running water.

His ears strained in the dark, but heard nothing else. Nothing unfamiliar. Just the water trickling, running down the wall. Familiar, filling in the emptiness. It was the only sound that mattered, the only one of importance. The gush as the water filled the basin and spilled to the floor.

Gush?

His head turned toward the sound. For the first time in months, it had changed. Instead of the light, soothing trickle of gently falling water, it was suddenly louder, fiercer.

He jumped as he felt the cool water drift across his foot.

Suddenly the familiar sound of water was anything but relaxing. His mind tried to spring to alert, the water already pooling around his ankles, but there was nothing he could do. He already knew there was no way out of this room—not unless there was some kind of trap door in the ceiling. His only hope would be to tread water until he could find it.

The water was rising rapidly enough that there was a current underfoot and he staggered, trying to keep his balance. He'd lost so much weight, so much muscle, he didn't know if he would even float any more, and he'd never been much of a swimmer.

He raised his hands, trying to keep them out of the water as hundreds of energy bar wrappers floated around him, clinging to his hands. That would be a choking hazard, he thought, once he was floating right along with them. But then he laughed. He'd been surrounded by the darkness for so long, what difference did any of this make? If The Black was going to rise up and swallow him, well … at least it would release him from this endless limbo of not-knowing and not-caring.

And as his feet were lifted from the floor, he leaned his head back and tried to remember what it had been like, when he'd had a reason to care. When there had been light, and hope, and friends. And Sherlock.

If he was going to be swallowed by the dark, he would cling to the most meaningful moments of his life. He was going to bring the bright, brilliant memory of Sherlock with him.

#


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock barely flinched at the sound of another gunshot and was only surprised not to feel more pain.

He was even more surprised to hear running feet, then Lestrade's voice, angry. "Sherlock! What were you thinking? What are you doing up there like a sitting duck?"

Not even questioning what had happened to Moran, Sherlock only had one thing on his mind. "Lestrade! Quick! Turn off the water!"

"What? Oh, Christ." Lestrade had come around the corner and caught sight of the monitor. He gaped for only a second before shouting into his radio, "Someone get that water turned off!"

He started for the ladder, but stopped when Sherlock snapped, frantic. "There's no door. How can we get him out of there? How much time do we have?"

Lestrade looked desperately around the room, and sprinted toward a crowbar discarded by the wall as a team of officers swarmed in the door. He looked at the monitor screen as he came back, and shouted "Not much!" as he climbed the ladder.

Sherlock snatched the crowbar from his hands and started attacking the only thing in sight—the water pipe leading into the corner of the room. He swung at it, beat it with the iron, knowing it wouldn't be enough, but unable to think of anything else to do.

His last swing broke the pipe, freeing the water to cascade out, onto the roof, down the wall, but still, too much of it poured straight down into the prison cell beneath him. There was nothing to divert the flow. Except for one thing.

Bracing himself for the pain, he flung himself across the broken pipe, taking the brunt of the water on his back, in his stomach, blocking the pipe to keep any more water from getting into the room. Water pounded him into the broken edge of the pipe, filling his ears, his mouth with water. He struggled to breathe, but refused to move—couldn't move—under the force as water streamed and poured in torrents around him. It was an eternity of pain, one that he welcomed. He would happily absorb any amount of punishment if it would save John.

Then the water stopped abruptly and he gasped for air as he felt Lestrade pulling him up, away from the pipe. Sherlock took a moment to shake the water from his ears and then realized Lestrade was leaning toward the pipe, calling John's name.

Sherlock lunged for the corner, crowbar in hand, and started digging at the masonry, trying to force an opening, working from the point where the pipe entered. He tried not to think about how much water was already in the room. He tried not to think how long John could tread water. In short, he tried not to think. All he could do was beat at his best friend's prison and shout his name.

He was dimly aware of other raised voices and the sound of machinery, but his mind was awash with fear and water. He longed to look at the monitor, to see if John was still alive, but he couldn't tear himself away from the rescue operation. He _needed_ to be here, right here, fighting for John.

He forced a hole—a terrifyingly small, wretched, useless hole—and leaned down, trying to look, trying to hear movement inside. (Please, let there be movement.) "John! Please, John!"

Thankfully, he heard a weak splash from inside and he reached his arm as far as he could into the hole. "John! Take my hand!" He could have cried with relief when he felt a weak hand grab his. His fingers tightened. "Hold on, John! We're here. I've got you."

Sherlock barely registered the swarm of people around him, bearing better tools, as they started to drill into the roof. He clung to his friend's hand as he heard orders from another team working on the ground, battering through the walls, making holes for the water to drain.

A rush of water roared from below as the wall finally gave way. The water level started to drop and suddenly, John's hand was pulled from his and he tried not to panic. Then he heard a voice shouting that they could see him and, like a flash, he was down the ladder, not even noticing the pain in his arm.

#

John treaded water, forcing his limbs to move, but he knew he wouldn't be able to do this for long. The floating wrappers kept washing into his face, covering his mouth as he tried to breathe, and he just didn't have the strength to keep this up for long.

He reached an arm up and touched the ceiling. His only hope would be to find the trap door he was sure was up there. If he could force it open, he could still have a chance.

But, no. There was none. What he could reach of the ceiling was as featureless as the walls and floor.

There was no way out.

There was a brief surge of panic but, he consoled himself, in a matter of minutes that wouldn't matter. There was only about a foot of air left and at the rate the water was rising, he would be completely surrounded by water in a matter of moments.

And then the water stopped rising. He felt a surge of relief, but it didn't last long. He was too tired. The adrenalin that had helped him stay afloat (that old, familiar rush) was dissipating, washing away in the water. Why bother fighting? He could count his lifespan at this point by the minute. What difference did it make whether it was one or ten more?

Then the banging started, jerking him awake so that he hit his head on the too-close ceiling. Was that his name he heard? It was but it made no sense to his assaulted senses, because it sounded like Sherlock, and wasn't he dead? John distinctly remembered that Sherlock was dead and almost smiled, because he was obviously closer to his friend now than he had been for this long, dark eternity.

There was an odd glimmer to his side and he blinked, water splashing in his face as he realized—it was light. Day of riches, his world suddenly not only had a surfeit of water and a multitude of noises, but now light as well. If he hadn't been so tired, he would have gone into sensory overload.

John was sure, now, that he heard his name, entreating for his hand. Dead or no, he could never resist Sherlock's commands and so he summoned the last dregs of his energy before they dissolved away and stretched out his hand, knowing it was futile. Knowing he was probably dead—that they were both dead—but somehow relieved that, either way, his time in limbo was over and Sherlock was there.

The hand that grasped his was real. Warm, strong fingers clutched at his as he heard his name called over and over, with reassurances in that familiar baritone voice he'd never expected to hear again. It was worth dying just to hear it, and he smiled, just as everything started to drop away and everything went black once again.

#

"Christ, look at him. I'll never forgive myself."

"At least you tried, Lestrade, but this was a trap set for me. If it's anybody's fault, it's Mycroft's for not telling me sooner."

"That doesn't matter. I should never have given up. He was here all that time, waiting for us."

John frowned. The voice was familiar, even welcome, but it wasn't the one he'd expected to hear. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was so brilliant, so unfamiliar. Painful. He clenched them closed again and tried to make sense of the chaos around him.

Voices, for one. Lots of them, along with the bustle of footsteps as people hurried back and forth, calling orders and questions. Cool air from an oxygen mask blew into his nose, filling his lungs, and he felt the familiar pinch of an IV in his right hand, along with the unfamiliar weight of a blanket pulled up to his chin. He shifted slightly and tried to open his eyes again.

"John? Are you awake?" It was Greg's voice, full of concern.

He was blind, blinded as the light pierced eyes that had long-since forgotten how to see. He gave up for now, and clenched them closed, mind swimming in the chaos. "Greg?"

"Yeah, it's me, mate. Sorry it took so long."

"Bloody traffic," John said, trying to smile.

Someone clutched at his left hand and he turned his head, trying again to force his long-unused eyes to see. He squinted at the blinding light, haloing around a head of dark curls that he hadn't expected to see again. But then, he'd always known Sherlock was on the side of angels. Why should it surprise him to see him look like one?

"Guess I didn't make it," he mumbled, but then stopped, confused. If he was dead, how was he talking to Greg? Would he hurt this much if he was dead?

"You did, John. Don't worry."

John felt his forehead crease in his confusion. That was definitely Sherlock's voice, and that on top of all the stresses of a very full day was too much. Secure in the knowledge that he was being cared for—on whichever side of life and death he was on—he let himself fall back into the familiar darkness.

#

Things were clearer the next time he woke up. He lay with his eyes closed, relishing the feel of crisp sheets beneath him and the simple feeling of being clean himself. He remembered that he'd been kidnapped. He remembered being kept for an indefinite eternity of time in his dark, familiar cell. And he remembered that he'd been rescued—fairly dramatically, too. He smiled to himself at the thought. Sherlock would have relished it, with his taste for the melodramatic.

He heard voices and carefully opened his eyes, grateful that it wasn't painful, then realized there was a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose, dimming the unfamiliar light. His eyes were out of practice, though. Everything was blurry, but he could see the shapes of the two men quarreling at the foot of his bed.

"All in all, the doctors are quite pleased with his condition. It could have been much worse." That was Mycroft, voice smooth and oily as if he were trying to exude calm.

"Worse!" It was a familiar verbal explosion and John almost smiled, reminded again of Sherlock. "He's lost at least three stone, has been locked in that dark little cell for months being tortured by sensory deprivation, and then almost _drowned_. He is anything but _fine_, Mycroft."

"Yes, but he is alive, he is whole, and he will be well, Sherlock."

"No thanks to you," the familiar voice snapped with a bite he had only ever used with his brother.

John blinked and squinted, trying to force his eyes to focus. It couldn't really be Sherlock, could it? Maybe he had finally snapped and was imagining all this? "Sherlock?"

Both figures turned abruptly toward him. "John? You're awake." Such relief in the familiar voice.

"Am I?" he asked, confused. "But you're dead."

The blurry figure shook its head and said gently, "No, I'm not. Neither are you, though it was close."

"Never was much of a swimmer," John said softly. "Sorry."

Sherlock took his hand, his fingers reassuringly warm and familiar. John held tight. "That's hardly your fault. I'm sorry it took so long to find you, John."

John winced at the pain in his voice. "Coming back from the dead is quite the journey, I hear."

A soft, muffled noise, half-sob, half-laugh. "So is being reborn. But if I'd known you needed me, I would have hurried. Believe me, John," he turned his head toward the other man, and said, voice sharp, "I would have come instantly. I would have moved heaven and earth to find you."

John shook his head. "I thought that's what you did."

Even with his blurry vision, he could see the smile that spread across his friend's face.

To his dazzled eyes, it shone like the sun.

##  
.


End file.
